The True Detective

by Theodore Weesner

  Vernon stands there. The person is beside him and he knows what is happening, knows it on the periphery of both his mind and his vision. The person next to him is presenting himself.

  Vernon looks down, watches the boy manipulate himself near the base of his penis, which is reaching straight out. The boy shifts his pelvis a little, to offer himself in Vernon’s direction.

  Vernon is thinking of Uncle Sally long ago. Uncle Sally’s game, his thing, he thinks. He sees at last why it was something Uncle Sally always wanted to reenact. There is reluctance in him and in his hand, but he reaches down and grips the boy’s penis.

  No eye contact has occurred.

  The boy whispers, “In a booth.”

  Vernon doesn’t say anything. He thinks to say that he wants shame, he wants degradation. He wants whatever it may take not to be what he is. If depravity will allow him redemption, he wants it. Holding the straining turkey neck in his hand, however, he doesn’t say anything.

  “Come on,” the boy whispers, withdrawing, slipping over and into one of the stalls.

  Vernon obeys. It is clumsy squeezing inside; the boy is closing the door, sliding home the latch. The boy’s penis is higher now than it was outside.

  “I want it in the ass,” Vernon says.

  “What?”

  “I want it in the ass. I want to die.”

  “Jesus Christ,” the boy says.

  “I want it to hurt,” Vernon says, and is crying. “I want to die.”

  The boy is climbing onto the stool, presenting himself. “Suck it!” he hisses.

  Vernon stands there crying.

  “Suck it—you fucking weirdo! Here! Suck it! Suck my cock! Do it!”

  The boy fucks him in the mouth, as he stands there. He takes it. His tears continue, his breathing made up of gasping and choking. Nor does he shift away as the boy’s pumping grows erratic—as the boy keeps hissing at him, “Suck it hard! Suck it hard, goddamn it!”—and cannot shift away then as the boy is gripping, holding his head with a hand.

  Vernon stands choking, crying, spitting into the toilet as the boy, down from his perch—has someone come in out there?—is zipping. Pulling the latch opening the door, the boy says, “Thanks, fag,” and is gone.

  Vernon leans to the wall. He spits into the toilet and in a moment sits there, and holds his head, and cries, and it is as if he is a child again and has closed himself in the bathroom to weep in confusion and heartbreak while his mother ignores him. Hers was a resolve that he could never break. He knows now that he has to do what he has to do. He has to, because there is nothing else he can do. It reverberates, keeps reverberating in his mind. He has to get rid of the little boy. Forever.

  CHAPTER 14

  WHERE HAS THE TIME GONE? WHAT’S HAPPENED TO THE brother? Did his meeting with him get lost in the shuffle? All he seems to know for sure is that Shirley went home for dinner. Is she coming back? Did she say she was bringing him something to eat? Where is that key call, that key person? Why doesn’t this thing break?

  Using his shoulder to keep the telephone to his ear, Dulac lights another cigarette. Too many butts, he thinks. His thick glass ashtray, which he has carried to the squad room, is packed with stubs. He lifts his eyes to the wall clock as the man on the other end of the telephone keeps talking, talking like water moving in a stream. Twenty to six. Jesus Christ, he thinks, is everyone having dinner? For of the three lines set up for calls, one is standing idle.

  The man he is talking to—listening to—goes on. His dime, Dulac thinks, even as he is growing anxious. The man, calling from Boston, a Dr. Abel, a research psychiatrist with a special interest in criminal behavior, he has said, has been making some interesting remarks, and things are quiet enough for the moment—or Dulac would have cut him off, however rude he might have seemed to be.

  Still, being an audience to the man’s rambling lecture is testing his patience. He would feel impatient in any case, but he knows that Mizener, at that very moment, is rounding up some bodies for a lineup in the interrogation room, and that the secret witness—for whom he is responsible—is due to return yet again to do the lineup. As the voice continues into his ear, Dulac lifts his eyes once more to the clock on the wall.

  Five fifty.

  Something the man said has caught his attention, and he interrupts. “Doctor, excuse me,” he says. “Excuse me. Just back up a little there, would you? Something you just said, about persons reacting violently, might be pertinent to this case. You see, what we—”

  “The kinds of violent reaction,” the doctor says—not reluctant to interrupt him, Dulac notices. “Of the—”

  Dulac interrupts back. “Doctor, listen to me, please,” he says. “I’m sorry, I just don’t have time to hear all that you have to say. Okay? I’d like to ask you some questions. A profile and—”

  “Well, you need a foundation,” the man says.

  “Could be, could be,” Dulac says. “But I don’t have time for it right now. I appreciate your calling, Doctor. But I am pressed, we are pressed for time. If you could give me some responses to what we’re actually dealing with—”

  “I’ll try. I only want to help. That’s why I called. I felt it was—”

  “Doctor, hold on a second. Let me ask you something. You were talking about different kinds of violent reactions, acting out anger and so on, transference and hostility and all. Let me ask you this: Is there anything we might put out, over TV or in the paper, a kind of subliminal message, or a direct message, an appeal, that might stop someone from hurting the little boy in some way, if he hasn’t done so already? Do you know what I’m saying? If we said, ‘Please let Eric Wells go because . . .,’ I don’t know, because he’s supposed to help his mother clean house or he’s supposed to be in the school play? He has to feed his kitten. You see what I mean? I’m afraid we might be scaring the shit out of this guy. Is there any way we can intercept his emotions—redirect his behavior—do you know what I’m saying?”

  “Certainly,” the man says. “However, I don’t know if it’s very possible, what you’re suggesting. Your alleged abductor is probably a pedo—”

  “He may not be alleged, Doctor. We’ve got eyewitnesses. It’s real.”

  “I see. The individual, in any case, would be a pedophile, which would mean you are not dealing with a person who is given to violence as an end in itself. You see, there are—”

  “Just stick with this guy, Doctor, please.”

  “Lieutenant, I am trying to do just that. Now, this individual would be after what he has been unable to get from adults, because his own personality would be underdeveloped and he would have grown fixated on children. Or remain fixated on them. Do you see? He isn’t being motivated by hostility in itself, although he may be acting out hostility toward what the child represents—childhood itself, and the love and attention perhaps that he did not receive himself when he was a child. So here he is, seeking a substitute for that which was denied. Of course, one of the most pitiful offenders is the elderly widower—”

  “Do you believe he’s homosexual? We have reason to believe this person went to a gay bar just an hour or so before the little boy was picked up.”

  “He could be homosexual,” the doctor says. “Not necessarily, though. It could be anyone, you see, as far as there being triggered in them a fixation on children. We’ve treated lawyers. High-ranking military officers. Physicians—with very successful practices. And we’ve also treated plumbers and construction—”

  Dulac is looking at Mizener, over in his doorway, something of a smile on his face, waving for him to come over. Dulac says into the phone, “Doctor, excuse me—I’m afraid I have to go. Someone is motioning to me right now. I appreciate your—”

  “I’ll hold,” the man says.

  “You’ll do what?” Dulac says, although he has heard clearly.

  “I’ll hold. If you don’t mind. There are just a couple other things I need to say.”

  “Doctor, I’m awfully busy.”

>   “It will only take a minute or two. If you’ll just do what you have to do, I want to sort out some thoughts on the question you raised.”

  Against his better judgment, Dulac agrees, although placing the receiver on his desk, getting to his feet, he mutters, “Jesus Christ,” to himself. “He’s going to hold,” he says to no one.

  Mizener, a file folder in one hand, grips his elbow with his other hand. “This guy is something else,” he says.

  “You got a lineup?”

  “Just about. We’ve got three suspects. This first guy, though, is really something. Listen to this.”

  “What?” Dulac says, pulling up with Mizener along the hallway.

  Mizener has the folder up to read. “Just listen,” he says. “ ‘Sadler’s residence, a four-room, first-floor apartment, is a filthy wreck. There are dirty dishes, garbage, dirty underwear strewn on dirty floor. Forty-five-pound punching bag suspended from living room ceiling by chain.’ ”

  “He’s a suspect?” Dulac says. “You have him here? I don’t understand.”

  “Right. He’s in the interrogation room. But listen: ‘Arrested March 11, 1980, June 7, 1980, and November 19,1980, by Hampton Town Police for indecent exposure. November 19, 1980, apprehended for walking on beach and sidewalk naked. Contacted this date’—this is this evening—‘at residence, in response to anonymous tip, Mr. Sadler answered door stark naked. Undersigned’—that’s me—‘identified himself to suspect as police officer, at which time suspect told undersigned to remove his “fat ass” from his door.’ ”

  “Neil, what is this?” Dulac says, growing impatient all over again lingering here in the hall.

  “Just a second, Lieutenant, there’s more. Listen to this: Suspect advised undersigned he holds doctor of philosophy degree, University of Chicago, was formerly instructor Mount Holyoke College, but presently unemployed.

  “ ‘Suspect advises he spends fourteen hours a day working out, or walking the streets with his knapsack full of rocks and carrying a sledgehammer to build up his wrist strength.

  “ ‘Contacted former live-in companion of suspect now living in Newington. She advised she has known suspect approximately two years and lived with him four months, with her son by a previous marriage, until last Thanksgiving when she moved out after she learned suspect was attempting to have sexual relationship with her son, who was eight at the time. She believes suspect capable of violence.’ ”

  “Neil, he sounds weird, this guy does, but is he a suspect?”

  “Well listen—”

  “Neil, I don’t want to listen! Is he a suspect?”

  “Well, come on, and take a look.”

  Going along to the one-way window of the interrogation room, where another plainclothesman and a uniformed officer are watching, Dulac says, “Is this a lineup?”

  “That’s coming,” Mizener says. “Where’s the witness?”

  “He’ll be here any second.”

  The men at the door titter, and shift aside as Mizener and Dulac approach. Mizener behind his shoulder, Dulac looks in. There is the man standing naked in the corner of the small white room. A pile of clothing is on the old wooden table there. The man’s hair is dark and he is balding slightly. “He won’t leave anything on,” Mizener says behind him.

  Dulac turns back. “Neil,” he says. “Step over here, will you.”

  Three or four steps away, Dulac turns to face him. “Neil, that man is thirty-five or forty years old,” he says. “My God, don’t you understand that we have a suspect? What are you doing?”

  “He looks like a suspect to me, Lieutenant.”

  “He’s a mental defective. That’s what he looks like. Get him out of here! Get him dressed and get him out of here! What in the hell are you doing?”

  “Lieutenant, look—”

  “Don’t lieutenant me; don’t say another word. Do as I say or I’m putting you on report.”

  Reentering his office, squeezing his temples in one hand, Dulac swings around into his chair and lights another cigarette. He sits, pulling his forehead in his fingers until he realizes the telephone is lying on its side. “Jesus Christ,” he says, and reaches to take it up.

  He exhales. “Doctor,” he says. “I have only a minute now, so you have to make this quick.”

  “Okay, fine, it’s an idea I have,” the doctor says. “A scheme. Use the truth. In a direct appeal. Broadcast a direct appeal, in which you say: To the person who picked up so-and-so, this twelve-year-old boy.”

  “Eric Wells,” Dulac says.

  “Right. Say: We know you are not happy in the situation you have gotten yourself into. We know you would like to return this young boy to his family before anything worse happens and so you may receive treatment so you will not commit this kind of act again. We ask you to please put an end to the horrors you are causing yourself as well as your captive, and telephone the following number. Et cetera.”

  “Doctor,” Dulac says. “I don’t think we could make a public offer of treatment. That’s something that has to be decided by a court. Besides, we don’t even know if the boy is still alive.”

  “Well, to understand is to sympathize,” the doctor says.

  “Fine, but my own sympathies right now are elsewhere,” Dulac says.

  “To succeed, though, an appeal needs to be nonthreatening.”

  “Fine. I understand that. It also has to be legal. I declare this guy is in need of treatment, it implies he’s mentally deficient. The worst lawyer in the world would get him an acquittal in half an hour. We are instructed, Doctor, policemen are, to not even say something like there’s a ‘weird’ person out there, or an ‘animal,’ because that kind of remark implies a perception of mental deficiency. Besides, if I offered this guy treatment, I’d be run out of town the next day. As I should be. This is not theory, Doctor, and it’s not alleged. The truth is, this guy could pick up another little kid.”

  “Well, lieutenant, if your suspect is a true pedophile, as I suspect he is, he would have acted out of love to begin with. Desperate love, certainly, but love of a kind nonetheless. You offer understanding of that in some direct or subtle way—I think direct would be most effective—you might get him to come in. And it must come from you. As the authority figure, with your picture in the paper, the person in charge. He’ll know you by now, you see. Don’t turn it over to a policewoman or to the boy’s mother because you think they’ll be less threatening. Make an expression of concern for this young man.”

  “Doctor, listen, I’ll think about it. Thanks very much for your help.”

  “This person—listen, my friend—this person is not happy with what he has gotten himself into. Unless he has done this before, and gotten away with it, he is probably terribly confused right now.”

  “Doctor, I don’t think anyone is happy when they commit terrible crimes.”

  “Well, this is an epidemic, isn’t it? It’s everywhere, isn’t it? You must try to understand that.”

  “I’ve been trying.”

  “It’s a new pathology, you know.”

  “It is?”

  “Absolutely. It isn’t surprising to me that this is happening, Children as sexual objects have been literally advertised for years now. This is not surprising. Not in a society where the moral climate has been exhausted.”

  “A new pathology?”

  “That is my belief.”

  “Okay, Doctor, thanks again. I’ll think about making an appeal, like you said.”

  “Another thing, you see, is that the pedophile is quite convinced he’s doing the child a favor by giving him or her the care and affection he or she doesn’t receive at home. We are no longer a child-oriented society. Not at all. Children are considered a nuisance, an expense. A man here, convicted of molesting children, said he picked out his victims by looking over a schoolyard to see which children looked lonely or unhappy, not well cared for, inadequate clothing and so on. Such children, he tell us, make up a significant percentage. What the pedophile does is c
apitalize on that vulnerability—that’s why this pathology is new. Television advertises general approval, parents are busy elsewhere; moral authority is being subverted—”

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” Dulac says, “I don’t mean to be rude—don’t you ever stop talking? I have other things to do.”

  “On this subject, no, I don’t stop talking,” the doctor says. “These phenomena need—”

  “Doctor, I have to go. Call back sometime.”

  “You put it that way, okay, Lieutenant.”

  “Thanks, Doctor. I have your name.” Dulac replaces the receiver, gently. Following, he places his arms on the table and his head on his arms. He doesn’t close his eyes, however, and in a moment lifts his brow to read the clock.

  Shirley. She is entering the door, under the clock, and he forgets the time, for the moment. She glances at him; he glances at her. Relief—a wave—passes over him. In a moment, he knows, as she hangs up her coat, she will join him at this first long table set up here for the investigation. Now two of the three phones are in use—his extension makes a fourth—and getting up and stepping over to the coffee maker, he looks back to see Shirley returning to the table he just left. Asking her with a glance and a pointed finger if she wants coffee, receiving a nod, he draws two cups and carries them back, one black, one with cream and sugar.

  “Have you eaten yet?” she says, as he sits down.

  “Not yet,” he says. “I thought you were bringing me something.”

  “Don’t be fresh,” she says.

  Confused by her remark, he lets it go. Fresh? “Did you contact the brother?” he says. “It slipped my mind; things have been hectic.”

  “It’s not that busy though, is it?”

  “No, it’s not. I expected more, to tell you the truth.”

  “I talked to Claire Wells,” she says, “but I didn’t want to tell her we thought the boy, the brother, was being overlooked, so I said you wanted to talk to him about some things. I said we’d call back, that it wasn’t important. What’s going on here?”